Protector of The Forgotten
by Cookie-Monster42
Summary: A look back at Professor Sprout's Childhood, what drove her to become a professor...and what does she do when a certain emerald eyed boy is sorted into her house? Also offers a small glimpse of the future. Oneshot,please read & Review


Professor Sprout

Very little was known about Pomona Sprout. Many could tell you the basic facts; what she did for a living – _that_ was easy, she taught Herbology to the students of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry; she was a Hufflepuff tried and true. She was short and plump with a kind mouth always slightly upturned at the corners, as if someone had hidden a smile there when nobody was looking. She was Head of Hufflepuff house and tended to her students as if they were her most delicate seedlings, each one placed perfectly and nurtured to help them grow and learn.

But when asked, very few people could tell you who she was as a person; what she liked, what she thought of this or that. The truth was Pomona Sprout was hiding, she wore many masks, but nobody noticed. Severus Snape's masks deterred people. They pushed people away, leaving them cold. On the other hand, Pomona's drew you in, warmed you like a fire on a cold winter's day, then sent you on your way still glowing but none the wiser as to her true self.

She had started hiding long ago; she was the youngest child of three, and the only girl in a single parent home. Her father did his best by her, but between her two energetic brothers, maintaining a large house and its garden as well as holding down a good job he had very little time to spare for his only daughter.

This was made worse by the fact that she also went unnoticed at school, even at the age of 5. She was not extraordinarily smart, but neither was she stupid. She was the kind of child who was always there, but was never noticed unless she was absent. At least, she went unnoticed by teachers' eyes; the children saw her, short and plump as she was even as a small child. The children saw and disliked her for being different. They hated the ever present smile and sought to destroy it, with all they could. So began the schooling of Pomona Sprout; not with new friends, new experiences, but with isolation, fear and rejection.

Fresh back from her first day at school that September, she had run from the house unnoticed by her father or two brothers to the one place she knew would provide her with the shelter she needed no matter what. It was in one of the many greenhouses scattered throughout the garden where she found solace from the harsh September rain that poured down upon her, just as her new classmates' insensitive words had earlier that day. She meandered slowly through the greenhouse, taking her time to examine each and every plant on her way. She never told anyone, but sometimes the plants would talk to her. Not much, never much, but the occasional remark or request, letting her know what they liked or needed.

Often, as a small child, her bemused father had looked on as she babbled to the plants and toddled off, tottering back in her soft shoes carrying some item or another. Sometimes a watering can for this plant or fresh soil for that one. Under her small, podgy hands each and every plant in that greenhouse blossomed, unfurling new leaves and becoming lush and green in front of her wide, brown eyes.

In the bleak cold of winter, her days were filled with wet, snow packed clothing, taunting smirks and whiplash remarks courtesy of the other children. She would return home lonely and sodden, stopping briefly to shrug off her water-heavy jacket before making her way to the greenhouses, to her only friend and confidants; her plants. The plants she had so lovingly tended to over many seasons that had come and gone. The plants which had come to talk more extensively as they were further exposed to the young witch's magic. It was on days like these, when all she could do was cry, that they would sing for her of what they thought would bring comfort. They sang of spring rain and autumn showers, of the feeling of the sunshine on newly furled petals and of fresh, well watered soil around their roots. Even though she still wished that somebody – _anybody_ – would notice her pain and struggles, the plants' attempts warmed her heart. Even as she shivered in her cold uniform and pushed back sopping hair to rest behind ears reddened from the wind, she would in return take a seat, singing straight back to them, songs long forgotten. It was on those days her voice soared up, past the greenhouse roof, into the heavens to warm cold, disheartened gods' hearts.

But soon the time would come when she would need to slip back into the house and back to the family that had forgotten her, never noticing her pain. She would sit down to dinner, smile and chatter about her day at school. She would talk of her 'friends'; how they had played in the snow and giggled over her sodden uniform. Her family always tuned her out before long, simply talking between themselves and it was then that she could slip away, up the three rickety flights of stairs to her small room, ready herself for bed. After taking one last glance out of the window, she blows out the candle. As the smoke slowly drifts away she too would drift softly downward through the blanket of sleep and dream of better days, of shining summer days, when school was out and she no longer saw her tormentors daily.

So the years went on. Pomona would go to school, she would put on the warm and inviting mask she had perfected after years of persecution and simply cut through the insults like a hot knife through butter. Their thoughts meant nothing to her, simply because she meant nothing to them. She was just an easy target, the one that everyone bullied. They went with the idea that it was okay to torment her because she was _just _Pomona; there was nobody to defend her, nobody to care. Eventually it came to her eleventh year and an owl bearing a Hogwarts Letter had come and gone. Her place was accepted and Pomona was off to Hogwarts.

It was in Hogwarts she would be sorted to the house she would one day lead. Here she found kindred souls, those who had been bullied like she had. Unlike the other houses who fought back – Ravenclaw lashing out with sharp tongues and harsher words; Gryffindor fighting back, brashly, boldly and above all defiantly, refusing to be treated as such and Slytherin, who used their cunning to strike back at their tormentors from the shadows – Hufflepuffs, merely endured no matter how bad it got. They were not fighters but defenders.

This is why she loved Hogwarts; it became more of a home to her than anywhere else, excepting, perhaps her greenhouses at home where she sought comfort and companionship throughout the long, lonely days of her childhood. Here she was with friends, with people who understood her, who knew what it was like to be forgotten by everyone who was supposed to care.

She also flourished when she was introduced to Herbology. While she knew of some magical plants from books belonging to her long dead mother that she had found around the house, she was always eager to learn more about the subject she had always loved. Her greenhouse at home had contained only muggle botany, nothing more. Her father had rid the house of reminders of her mother for the most part, and while both her brothers were also half-bloods they showed no signs of magic, which had alternatively puzzled and annoyed them. It also lead to her being further ignored as her brothers grew jealous of her magic, wanting as little to do with her as possible, making her even more isolated than ever before.

But she went on through the years, learning more and growing alongside her fellow Hufflepuffs, navigating the ups and downs of life on her own, a skill she had perfected after years of practice. She became a prefect in her fifth year and was dedicated to her duties, helping first years settle in, helping the muggleborns with penmanship and wizarding culture, and already showing the signs of where life would take her in the future. While she was not extraordinary, many teachers noted this, talking amongst themselves about the determined Hufflepuff prefect. The lesson she shone in was Herbology and after she graduated with a fine number of NEWTs and a title of head girl she was offered an apprenticeship that would eventually lead to her assuming Head of House and a post as Herbology teacher.

Hogwarts saw Pomona Sprout, seven years after she had graduated, completing her gruelling apprenticeship and came back to the school she still thought of as home, determined to help those like her, who had been left to make their own way down the paths of life. She came with fire in her eyes and hope in her heart. She was firm but kind with her students and under her care they grew to love plants almost like she did. To many, Herbology was not a chore or a struggle, but something relaxing, soothing. The students enjoyed simply working the soil, just them and the feel of leaves and earth beneath their fingertips. More Herbology apprenticeships were taken up in the next few years, under Pomona's tutelage, than ever before.

Other teachers murmured amongst each other, wondering why they had never noticed her much before, when the enthusiasm for her subject was so obvious, managing to inspire and encourage even the most reticent student, regardless of house or blood purity. If they lacked confidence she would give it to them, if they were over confident, she would correct it gently, rather than snapping, using harsh words to knock them down like other teachers would.

So it was that Pomona Sprout put her life into Hogwarts. She herself had no children, but saw each and every student as one of her own. She taught many more important things than just how to correctly fertilize a fanged geranium. She taught them how to live, helped them to learn. When a certain emerald eyed boy, achieved the unexpected result of Hufflepuff under the age old sorting hat, she was the first to welcome him, starved, unloved and forgotten like many of her other students although to a far greater degree.

Later that evening as he lay in the infirmary, it was her hands that ran through his hair as he fell asleep, free from the ever present pain the result of one injury or another. She was the one who talked to Dumbledore, forcing the old man to listen, to recognise that he was not all knowing and that he had made a huge mistake in placing the boy with his aunt and uncle.

When the boy awoke, it was her who was sat at his bedside, his hand enfolded inside her soft, warm palms. When he and his fellow first years struggled in lessons she would patiently teach each and every one of them how to accomplish whatever spell or theory that seemed impossible.

In the North tower, a woman stared straight ahead with distant eyes, seeing the future before her, the boy..._The Chosen One_. Growing older each second, going from year to year...he had a hard time ahead of him; pain, heartbreak and betrayal. But then, once he fulfilled his destiny, slaying the Dark Lord she saw the boy in the arms of the short smiling witch that no one suspected would ever interfere, the witch that had helped the boy year after year. When they disappeared, when Dumbledore searched, wanting to cement his power by getting rid of the boy, he found nothing. After that all she could hear were sad, sweet voices singing the songs that were once sung to them by a small shivering girl with the name of Pomona.

As the vision ended, the woman smiled softly, tears of joy streaming down her face as the music echoed through her soul. The boy would be safe and loved by the mistress of Plants. There was hope yet.


End file.
